“That’s a beech,” he says, nodding at the tree.
Oh. Right.
I don’t know any poems about beeches.
“Here we are.” Nathaniel pushes open an old iron gate and gestures me to go up a stone path toward a little cottage with blue flowered curtains at the windows. “Come and meet your cooking teacher.”
Nathaniel’s mother is nothing like I expected. I was picturing some cozy Mrs. Tiggywinkle character with gray hair in a bun and half-moon spectacles. Instead, I’m looking at a wiry woman with a vivid, pretty face. Her eyes are bright blue, and her graying hair is in plaits on either side of her face. She’s wearing an apron over jeans, T-shirt, and espadrilles, and is vigorously kneading some kind of dough on the kitchen table.
“Mum.” Nathaniel grins and pushes me forward into the kitchen. “Here
